


Ephemeral

by scribacious



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Death, Declarations Of Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Major Illness, Mental Health Issues, Romance, Sad, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8585749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribacious/pseuds/scribacious
Summary: Victor has been ill for a long time.





	

Yuuri had won the Grand Prix Final, but he did not feel like a winner.

For one, he was exhausted. Yesterday he had spent hours practicing his ice skating routine, inflicting a countless number of bruises upon his tired, aching body; and this was all while listening to a litany of criticisms and complaints coming from Victor, who had been acting odd lately: withdrawn and testy and apathetic, rarely expressing joy or gratitude or any other positive emotion. 

The shouts and claps and cheers of the audience roared in his ears. He went up to the podium and stood upon it, poised between the second and third place winners, smiling and waving. The noise intensified when he accepted the award and reached a loud peak as he lifted the medal and held it up for everyone to see. Then he squinted at the awed and reverent faces of the audience, scanning, searching. Where on earth was Victor? Yuuri looked for him all around the stadium, but he was nowhere to be found . . .

Then, in a whirlwind of movement, Victor bounded forward and threw himself into Yuuri’s arms. “That was amazing, Yuuri!” He gave Yuuri a smothering hug and sighed happily into Yuuri’s sweat-soaked hair. “You’re amazing, absolutely amazing. What would I ever do without you?”

Yuuri grabbed the lapels of Victor’s suit and pulled him into a deep kiss. Victor made a small muffled noise before he melted into the kiss, moaning softly into Yuuri’s mouth. 

This was the best day of Yuuri’s life. His love for Victor had been captured on live television, broadcasted to the whole wide world.

This was the best day of his life.

* * * * *

They were back in Japan. Victor was lounging on Yuuri’s bed with a magazine clutched in his hands. Yuuri sat at his desk, reading his email, as Victor spoke animatedly from a few feet away. Yuuri listened without paying attention. Ever since he had won the Grand Prix Final, he received hundreds and hundreds of emails each day (some from fans, others from reporters), and he enjoyed sifting through them. One of the recent emails, sent by a thirteen-year-old girl, was an absurdly long letter that lavished him with effusive praise, and reading it made his chest suffuse with warmth.

Victor scooted to the edge of the bed and tapped Yuuri on the shoulder. “Have you seen this interview?” He held the magazine up to Yuuri’s face. “You’re adorable in it. You sound so happy.”

“Yeah, I remember that one.” Yuuri rubbed the back of his neck. “Honestly, getting this much attention makes me uncomfortable.”

“It shouldn’t. You deserve the adulation.” 

“Eh, I dunno . . .”

Victor reached forward and held Yuuri’s hand. “You deserve it, Yuuri.” 

Yuuri smiled. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me for telling the truth.” Victor turned his head and locked eyes with Yuuri, whose chest fluttered in anticipation. “You deserve it,” he said, more firmly this time. “You really, really do.”

Heat surged to Yuuri’s cheeks. Victor wrapped his arms around him. For a moment Victor ran his fingers through Yuuri’s hair and then, lowering his hand, he skimmed his knuckles across Yuuri’s flushed cheek.  “We’d better stop,” Yuuri said breathlessly. “My sister is in the next room.”

“So? Let her hear us.”

Yuuri tossed his head back, laughing. Victor began to laugh, too; and when he spoke again his voice was throaty and low, roughened by lust. He said, “What do you want me to do to you?”

“Right now, as corny as it sounds, I just want you to kiss me.”

Victor leaned in and touched his lips to Yuuri’s lips and, with a soft little hum, eased his tongue into Yuuri’s mouth. For a long, blissful moment, Yuuri closed his eyes and concentrated solely on the feeling of Victor’s body pressed against his own, reveling in the warmth and the closeness and the sweet, simple happiness easing from his heart.

Victor was the first to break the kiss. He leaned back and gazed into Yuuri’s eyes, panting. Yuuri shuddered as a pang of lust coursed through him. His head was spinning; he felt dizzy with passion. Victor smiled and continued to gaze adoringly into Yuuri’s eyes. 

“I love you,” Yuuri said suddenly.

There was a long silence. Victor’s whole body stiffened, his own eyes wide and disbelieving.  “What did you just say?”

“I-I told you that I love you.” 

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you really love me?”

“Of course I do,” Yuuri said. He loved Victor fiercely, passionately. Why wouldn’t he? Victor was wonderful, beautiful, perfect. Victor meant everything to him. 

Victor rose abruptly to his feet. “I should—I should go.”

“What? Why?” 

Victor crossed to the end of the room and snatched his jacket from the floor. “I’m sorry, Yuuri, but I just need to go.”

“Where are you going?” Yuuri was incredulous. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m really sorry.” Victor put on his shoes and turned to face him, his lashes matted with tears.

“Will you at least call me later?”

“No, I won’t,” Victor said. Then he wrenched his arms into the sleeves of his jacket and departed the room. 

What had just happened? Yuuri collapsed against the bed, his fists clenched, his head spinning. Righteous anger formed in the pit of his stomach. Who the hell does Victor think he is? Yuuri thought, seething. Okay, he can be a bit of jerk sometimes, but it’s weird for him to be acting like this . . . it’s almost like he has something to hide. . . .

Yuuri rubbed his eyes wearily and tried to sleep. Later in the night, after hours of tossing and turning, he trudged out of bed and padded to the kitchen to get himself a glass of water, which he brought back to his room—along with two sleeping pills. 

Then he crawled back into bed and waited for slumber to overtake him.

* * * * *

When Yuuri woke up the next morning he had a massive headache. With his fingers pressed against his temples, he glanced at a clock sitting on his bedside table and saw that it was 2:45 p.m. This did not surprise him: He slept too much whenever his mood turned rotten, and recently he’d been under more stress than usual. 

His thoughts, as always, came back to Victor. Where was Victor now? Yuuri checked his phone; no texts. He checked his email; nothing. Victor had vanished without a word. Yuuri bit his lip, lost in thought. What if Victor was dissatisfied with him, sexually? Could that be why he left? No—Yuuri was in the best shape of his life. Victor must have left for another reason; but Yuuri had no idea what this reason could be. 

Suddenly his mobile phone made a pinging noise. He grabbed it with sweaty palms and saw that Victor had texted him, saying: _I’m coming home now. Sorry for acting like such a dick. See you soon._

Yuuri could sense that something was wrong. Where were the emojis? The exclamation points? Victor was almost never this somber, neither in writing nor in person, and it frightened him to think of what might've gone wrong. Before he had time to panic, however, he heard a low voice somewhere behind him . . . 

“Yuuri?” Victor was speaking through the door. “Will you let me in? I need to talk to you.”

Yuuri leapt from his bed and opened the door. Victor was standing in the doorway, wearing the same jacket that he'd had on last night. His cheeks were stained red from the cold air and his face, bathed in a stark winter light, appeared even paler than usual. When he spoke he stared down at his feet to avoid Yuuri’s angry, accusatory eyes. “Hello, Yuuri,” he said, softly, sheepishly. “Is it okay if we talk for a little while?”

Yuuri gestured for him to come in. Still avoiding Yuuri’s gaze, Victor placed his scarf and jacket onto a coat-rack before he sat down, which was something that struck Yuuri as odd. He was used to seeing Victor toss his possessions blithely onto the floor, claiming that he would clean it up later but never doing so. 

“Victor, what’s going on? You owe me an explanation, seriously.”

“I know I do.” Victor bent his head, his face unreadable. Was he angry? No, it was something else, some other emotion—sadness? disappointment? grief?—and for some reason it sent a chill down Yuuri’s spine. “Yuuri, I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“How exactly haven’t you been honest?” 

“I’m . . .” Victor struggled to get the words out. “You should know that I’m not well.”

“In what way?” Yuuri said.

“In a bad way.” Victor closed his eyes wearily, rubbing his temples. “Yuuri, I—I have stomach cancer.”

Yuuri’s heart stuttered. “You’re joking, right? . . . right?”

“No, I’m not joking. I wish—I wish I was.”

Yuuri’s gaze dropped to the floor. “How long have you known?” 

“Since before I met you.” Victor laughed again, bitterly. “I’m a horrible person, I know.”

“Is that why you—?” Yuuri raised his tear-stained face and looked Victor directly in the eye. 

“Why I contacted you?” Victor said, and Yuuri nodded. “Yes, it is. I saw that video of you skating and I knew I had to help you somehow, because I wanted to do one last good thing before—before I couldn’t.” Victor swallowed, looking pained. “Or so I thought, at least. To be honest, I didn’t expect you to get so attached to me; but then, why wouldn’t you? I was your idol. I flirted with you constantly. I wanted it, wanted you. It was my own fault, everything, all of it . . .”

Yuuri said nothing.

“I don’t expect your forgiveness,” Victor continued. “What I did was completely wrong. I should’ve told you about this much sooner and I shouldn’t’ve gotten so close to you. I’m sorry, really. I really am sorry.”

Yuuri remained silent. What could he say? He’d never been instructed on how to handle a situation like this, never learned the intricate ins and outs of discovering that the person he loved most in the world was—was—

Victor took a step forward and squeezed Yuuri’s hand. “Look, I understand that you're going to want to break up with me, and I don’t want you to feel any guilt over it. You deserve someone healthy and strong, someone who can support you throughout the rest of your life.”

“What? Victor, I’m not leaving you.”

“You’re not?”

“Of course not! I’m going to do everything that I can to help with your recovery.”

“Recovery? Yuuri, I’m not going to recover.”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t had any medical treatment since I received my initial diagnosis, which was over two years ago.” 

Yuuri looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Why didn’t you go back to the doctor? Isn’t there something that they can do to help you?”

“Yes, but it’s not worth it. I’m not going to bother with treatment.”

“Why not?”

“Like I said, it’s just not worth it. All it will do is cause me more suffering.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve seen what chemotherapy does to people, and it’s not pretty.”

Yuuri needed a moment to compose his thoughts. What could he do to change Victor’s mind? Victor was not religious: he did not fear reincarnation, or demons, or hellfire: and, even if he did, it would be wrong to tell him that he should stay alive simply to avoid an intangible, unknowable, unprovable pain. 

Finally, Yuuri said, “I’m going to change your mind. I don’t know how, exactly, but I will.”

“You won’t.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Victor’s silence said everything and nothing, but nothing more.

* * * * *

Two months came and went. Despite his gradually increasing panic, Yuuri tried his best to be a good boyfriend for Victor, wanting nothing more than to keep Victor happy before he—before he—

Don’t think about that, Yuuri told himself. There was nothing that he could do to convince Victor to go to the hospital. Too much time had passed since his diagnosis, and there was nothing that Yuuri could do to save him. 

It was early in the evening. Dusky amber light fell through the window blinds and scattered obliquely across the dining room table. For dinner Yuuri had made Victor a miso stir fry, but Victor ended up leaving most of it on his plate, saying in an apologetic voice that the richness of the food made him feel sick. Yuuri was no longer surprised to hear this: Victor’s illness made it so that he could not stomach most foods, and it was unusual for him to finish an entire meal, even a small one. Yuuri just nodded and emptied the leftovers into the garbage disposal, watching gloomily as the food flopped down the drain. 

Later in the evening he sat onto the sofa and turned on the television. Victor was sitting next to him, reading Russian-language articles on his phone. Yuuri flipped through the channels for a few minutes and paused on the local news, which caught his attention. He turned up the volume and listened, hearing something about a forest fire. Yes, a fire had ignited earlier in the day, with four people dead and dozens more injured. God, how horrible! Yuuri made an effort to keep himself from tearing up, but it was unsuccessful: Victor, who had been watching him with wide eyes, could tell that he was upset. 

“Why are you crying?” Victor asked. He cast a glance toward the television screen. “Did something bad happen?”

Yuuri turned to him in surprise; he had forgotten that Victor could not speak Japanese. “There was a wildfire near Mount Fuji,” Yuuri explained. “Lots of people were hurt, and a few of them even lost their lives.”

“Oh, I’m sad to hear that.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Silence enveloped the room. After a few minutes, Yuuri turned to Victor again and asked,  “So, are you afraid of it?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Dying.”

Victor’s mouth tightened. For a moment he stayed quiet, pursing his lips, not looking up; but then he lifted his face and met Yuuri’s eyes.  “Does it matter if I am? The outcome is the same either way, so there’s no reason to think about it, really.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” Yuuri said, his heart sinking. He wanted his words to make an impact on Victor. Why was Victor so intent on giving up without a fight?

“Hey, Yuuri?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you please kiss me?”

Yuuri smiled and leaned in and kissed him. The kiss was nice at first—but then Yuuri realized that Victor’s mouth tasted metallic, like copper, like—blood? Was that blood? Yuuri gasped and suddenly drew away, smacking his elbow against the armrest of the sofa. “Oh, my God, are you bleeding?” he said hysterically. “You’re bleeding, aren’t you, why are you bleeding?”

Victor sank deeper into the cushion. “No, I’m not bleeding right now.” He kept his voice level to ease Yuuri’s panic. “No, no, it happened earlier . . . I just, I just felt sick and coughed up a little blood. Don’t let it worry you, okay?”

“But—” 

Victor held up a hand. “Just stop thinking about it.” He lowered his eyes and licked his lips and fluttered his long lashes. “Do you mind if I kiss you again?”

“Yes, I do.”

Victor rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, I understand. Sorry for killing the mood.” He inched closer and wrapped an arm around the back of Yuuri’s neck, around Yuuri’s tensed shoulders.  “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t be upset.”

Yuuri pushed him away. “No, it’s not okay. Nothing about this is okay.”

“Does this mean that you want to break up with me?” 

“Of course not!”

“It’s hurting you, staying with me.”

“I don’t want to break up! We can make this work, I know we can.”

“Yes—until we can’t.”

“We will. We can and we will.”

Victor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re sure about this?”

“Yes, of course I am.”

Victor nodded, opened his mouth, closed it again. It was as though he couldn’t think of what to say. Finally, he said, “Well, I better go to bed,” and then rose to his feet. 

Yuuri watched him leave. Victor’s legs, which used to be so adroit and graceful, were trembling as he ascended the stairs. Yuuri knew that Victor would never be able to skate in this condition, not with such a thin, weak, withered body.  

Victor would never be able to ice skate again.

* * * * *

The past few weeks had not gone well. 

Yuuri and Victor argued constantly; mostly about Victor’s health, because he was thinner now than he had ever been before. In fact, he looked almost emaciated, with sharp sunken cheeks and a jutting clavicle, and sometimes it frightened Yuuri just to be in the same room as him.

One afternoon, in the middle of another argument, Yuuri threw his hands in the air and stalked over to the front door, next to the coat-rack. “Don’t follow me, all right?” He glared at Victor. “I’m going on a walk.”

“Fine. You do that.”

“I will!”

Yuuri came home a few hours later. He entered the building and shucked off his sandals and placed them on a small rug next to the front door. Then he made his way upstairs and, passing the bathroom, stopped walking mid-step—it sounded like someone was throwing up. He put his ear to the door, listening, and heard the sound again: Victor was in the bathroom, vomiting. Yuuri pounded on the bathroom door. “Victor, I’m home from the store. Do you need any help?”

Victor’s hoarse voice came from the other side of the door. “Yes. I-I’m not feeling well.”

“Let me help you, okay? I’ll help you however I possibly can.”

The door creaked open. Yuuri entered the bathroom and saw Victor leaning against the wall, his clothes disheveled, his hair matted, his face ghost-white. Victor raised his head. His blue eyes, watery and red-rimmed, lingered for a moment on Yuuri’s face. Never before had Yuuri seen Victor looking anything but meticulously groomed; and the sight of him now, his body slumped on the floor, was horrific beyond words. “Oh, my God,” Yuuri said, barely breathing. “What happened to you?”

“Ouch. Do I really look that bad?”

“Worse.”

Victor nodded wearily. “Figures.”

Yuuri grabbed a towel from the countertop and wiped blood from Victor’s lips. Victor stiffened, shuddered. His jaw twitched; his mouth trembled; his eyes filled with tears. Suddenly he rose from the floor and stood over the sink, washing his hands, gasping. Then he dabbed his eyes with the front of his T-shirt and placed a hand on the doorknob as if to leave the room. Yuuri, his eyes hard, batted Victor’s hand. “No,” Yuuri said. “You’re not leaving until we talk about this.”

“Oh? Talk about what?” Victor said ironically.

“You need to see a doctor, Victor.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“You know what, I bet I could force you to go to one. Trust me, I’ll do it, I’ll call someone who’ll force you into the hospital.”

“Why? There’s no point; it’s not like I can be saved. I’m too far gone, now.”

“No, I refuse to believe that. There has to be something that we can still do.”

“You’re wrong.” Victor’s tone was clipped, cold. “I have no chance at survival, and at this point I’d probably be better off dead.” 

Frustration clawed at Yuuri’s chest. “You better not say that again,” he said in a low, modulated voice. “Don’t you dare say that ever again.”

“No, I’m going to keep saying it. I’ll say it again and again and again, ceaselessly, until your mind finally wills itself into letting me go.”

Yuuri bowed his head. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Yuuri, I can’t control what’s happening to my body.”

“Okay, sure, but why won’t you get any help for yourself?” Yuuri pressed a trembling hand to his forehead. “I don’t even understand why you’re still here, why you still want to be with me. Don’t you have some kind of bucket list? Don’t you want to do something fun and exciting, like go and travel the world?”

“I’m too sick to do that now.” Victor’s expression softened. “Look, Yuuri, it's not my fault I have cancer.”

“You could’ve done more to help yourself!”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then why didn’t you? Why the hell didn’t you?”

Victor drew his lips into a thin line. “Did you know that my grandmother died of leukemia?”

Yuuri shook his head. 

“Yes, well,” Victor continued, “my grandmother had cancer, and when I saw her again, right after her diagnosis . . .” His voice trailed off. “Well, I won’t go into any detail, but it was so striking and horrible that, even as a child, I told myself I would never, ever let myself be in that situation. I told myself that it was better to die than to be like that, sick and alone and in constant, unbearable pain.”

“Is it really any better?” Yuuri whispered.

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“You can’t know that for sure.”

“You’re right; no one can.”

“If you had gotten treatment you might’ve been okay. Yes, it would’ve been painful—honestly, I can’t even imagine how much it would hurt—but wouldn’t it all be worth it if you had been able to _survive_?”

“I didn’t want to take my chances. Besides, I’ve never liked the idea of growing old. Who’d wanna see me with even more wrinkles than I already have?” 

Victor gave an airy laugh, but the sound wavered. Yuuri clenched his fists until his knuckles blanched. “You’re so immature,” he said, raising his voice. “Don’t you know how childish you sound when you say things like that? Don’t you care how bad it makes you look?”

“No, I don’t care about that anymore. Before my diagnosis I was obsessed with my reputation, always wondering what other people thought of me. Now, after everything that’s happened recently, I just can’t bring myself to give a damn.”

“You _should_ give a damn! I want you to care about yourself again, even if it means worrying too much about what other people think.”

“I appreciate what you’re saying, but I don’t know how to make that happen.”

“Then I'll help you figure out what to do.”

“No, I don’t want that.”

Yuuri slammed his fist against the dining room table. “Quit acting like this! I don’t—I don’t know if I can take it anymore!”

The outburst startled both of them, especially Yuuri. He hadn't been conscious of the frustration and resentment festering inside of him, and now he felt ashamed by his sudden release of anger.

Victor stood from the chair. “Look, I’m going to leave. It’s clear that I’ve long overstayed my welcome.” 

“No, no,” Yuri said. “No, I don’t want that, I don’t want you to leave.”

Victor strode to the other end of the room, refusing to listen to Yuuri’s pleas. Before he left, however, he turned and said, “I’m sorry once again,” and then he was gone. 

* * * * *

It was a Sunday afternoon, idle and lazy. Yuuri could hear birds twittering outside. He felt as though the birds were mocking him with their light, joyful chirps. Did they enjoy watching him suffer? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way it seemed like a reasonable thing to believe, something still within the realm of earthly possibility. 

He had not heard from Victor in two miserable weeks. Victor’s absence made Yuuri’s throat ache and his chest swell with longing. He knew that he couldn’t keep going like this. He needed to make a decision, needed to figure out what to do next. He stared off into space and thought about what he should do. From what he could tell, he had two options: He could move on with his life and pretend that Victor never existed, or he could go out in search for him. 

With renewed energy, Yuuri grabbed his phone from the bedside table and dialed Yurio’s number. The phone rang once, twice, and then—

“ _Da? Eto gavarit Yuri Plisetsky._ ” 

Yuuri breathed a sigh of relief. “Yurio, it’s Yuuri.” He paused briefly, unsure of what to say. “Yuuri Katsuki? From Japan?”

“Yeah, I know who you are.” Yurio’s tone was far from welcoming. “Why are you calling me? I didn’t even know you had my number.”

“Victor gave me your number a while back. I figured it might be useful one day.” 

“Yeah, okay, whatever. Can I hang up now?”

“No, no, please don’t hang up. I need to ask you something, okay? It’s really, really important.”

“What is it?”

“I need to know where Victor is. Have you seen him recently?”

“Why’re you asking me? I haven’t talked to him in months.”

“Do you know where he lives, at least?” 

Silence followed Yuuri's question. “Look,” Yurio said, after a moment, “I _might_ be able help you, but first I’m gonna need to ask around.”

“Can you do that for me, please?”

Yurio let out an aggrieved sigh. “I could ask my coach, I guess. He probably knows where Victor is.”

“Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“Eh, it’s no big deal.”

“Will you call me as soon as you have the address?”

“Fine, whatever. _Now_ can I hang up?”

“Of course. Thank you again.”

* * * * *

The flight to Moscow was easier than Yuuri had anticipated. The airline staff was helpful and courteous; none of the passengers had disturbed him; and he had been able to collect his luggage smoothly and efficiently. There was, in fact, nothing to complain about—and now, as he bustled through the airport, he found himself accompanied by a dim sense of hope. 

Hoards of people swerved past him. He burst through the automatic doors and, now standing at the front of the building, began to examine his surroundings. The sky was dark and vapory and the cold night air nipped at his cheeks. On all sides he was surrounded by lamps and lanterns that suffused the snow-filled streets in a pale golden light. With his optimism increasing, Yuuri hailed a taxi and clambered into the backseat. The driver, a middle-aged man with fair hair and rugged hawk-like features, watched warily as Yuuri shoved his suitcase against the adjoining seat.  “Hello there,” Yuuri said, smiling at him. “Do you speak English, by any chance?”

The driver needed a moment to process Yuuri’s words. Then, once he appeared to understand, he nodded and said, “Yes, I speaking English.” 

Yuuri handed him a scrap of paper containing Victor’s address, written in a clumsy attempt at translating English into Russian. “Can you read what this says?” Yuuri asked. The driver nodded again. “Great! Could you please take me to this address?”

“Yes, I take you to the address.”

“Thank you so much.”

It took almost an hour to get to Victor’s apartment. For a little while Yuuri fidgeted anxiously in the backseat, wondering if he’d gotten scammed; but then the driver rounded a corner and parked in front of a nondescript building and turned to face him.  “Now we are in the address.” The driver cleared his throat. “Is the place good? Do you want be here?” 

Despite the driver’s broken, accented English, Yuuri was able to understand most of what he said. “Yes, it’s the right place,” he replied, and reached for the handle of the car door. “Thank you for your help.”

“You are welcome.” 

Yuuri took his credit card from the driver’s calloused hand and then slipped out of the taxi, leaving a streak of melted snow in his wake.

* * * * *

The front of Victor’s apartment building had an understated, even shabby, appearance. Yuuri was surprised by how it looked; it made him wonder how long Victor had been living there. One year? Two years? Three? Yuuri shuddered at the thought; it hurt him to imagine Victor moving here after receiving his cancer diagnosis, resigned to death. Thinking about that made Yuuri want to scream and never stop. 

He collected himself and strode into the lobby, which was mostly empty. He’d expected to see a doorman positioned at the entrance, but instead a group of teenage girls stood beside the front doors, chatting and laughing. Yuuri had no idea what they were saying but this inconvenience did not stop him from approaching. “Hello,” he said to them, and flashed his most charming smile. “Do any of you speak English?”

The girls exchanged confused looks. “Well, I am not totally fluent,” one of them said, “but my English is quite good.”

Yuuri showed her Victor’s address. “Do you know how to get to this part of the building?”

She gave him directions in a quiet toneless voice, looking surreptitiously at a security guard resting near the entrance, his arms and legs sprawled across a cushioned chair. To express his gratitude, Yuuri fished a few ruble banknotes from his pocket and pressed them into her cold, stiff fingers. “Thank you, sir,” she told him—and then he was off again, bounding up a staircase, not looking back.

* * * * *

Yuuri stood beside the door to Victor’s apartment. When he knocked on the door he made sure that the sound was soft but insistent. He lingered in the hallway for a few moments, waiting for someone to come out and greet him. Eventually, once it became clear that no one was going to answer, he heaved a sigh and banged his fist against the door, letting the loud noise reverberate through the empty hall. Then he grabbed the doorknob and twisted it to the side—and the door sprung wide open. Feeling a little embarrassed, Yuuri walked into the apartment and examined his surroundings. He was glad to see that the interior of the building looked nothing like its seedy exterior: no, it was beautiful, all bright and clean and intricately decorated. If Victor was keen on the idea, Yuuri would happily live here with him. 

Yuuri took off his shoes and padded past the entryway, into the living room. Victor’s living room looked as Yuuri might’ve imagined: alluring, elegant, extravagant—but it was also hopelessly cluttered, with all kinds of exotic knickknacks sitting, collecting dust, on the various shelves that surrounded him. In the middle of the room was a leather chaise lounge, placed beside a glass table bearing a vase of withered chrysanthemums. 

He traversed to another section of the apartment and, after passing through a dim, dusty corridor, he found himself standing in front of the door leading to Victor’s room. “Victor, are you in here?” He rapped his knuckles against the door. “Please let me in, I’m worried about you.” He curled his fingers around the doorknob and discovered that this door was unlocked too. He opened it slowly, cautiously; and then he saw—he saw— 

He saw Victor. Victor was lying on a large bed, unmoving, with his back supine and his long lithe limbs sprawled across a crumpled bloodstained sheet. His eyes were wide open, upturned to the ceiling, seeing nothing. “Victor?” Yuuri whispered, and his voice sounded foreign to his own ears. “Victor, are you sleeping?”

There was no response; Victor did not even stir.  Yuuri’s chest coiled with dread. “You’re asleep, aren’t you?” His voice was pitched high with distress. “Victor, are you . . . are you . . .” 

He trailed off and stumbled toward the bed. Victor’s body was slack, immobile, with his arms spread limply across his stomach. Yuuri reached forward and grabbed Victor by the shoulders, shaking him violently. Victor’s wide-open eyes, once a vivid, whimsical blue, were now hazy and faded and dull. Empty. They were empty. Victor’s mind, his heart, his soul: all had been vacated; all had been purged of life.

Victor was dead. He was dead and he was gone and he was never, ever coming back. Is this real? Yuuri thought dizzily. Is this real? Is this really happening? Why is this happening? Why? 

His gaze darted around the room. On the floor, scattered close to the entrance, lay a cluster of orange pill bottles with their caps unscrewed. He picked one of them up: it was empty: all of the bottles were empty. How many pills had Victor taken? Tens? Hundreds? He shuddered and collapsed to his knees and pressed a fist to his mouth to suppress his sobs. “Oh, God, why did you do this? Oh, God, why, why did you do this, why did you—why did you—” He could barely speak; it felt like his heart had clogged his throat. “Why did you . . . why did you . . .”

He had to get out of here, out of the bedroom. He rose to his feet and stumbled into the living room. His heart stuttered and his vision blurred and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t—

He sank to his knees and vomited onto the carpeting, his breath coming out in harsh, ragged gasps. What should he do now? He needed to contact someone, anyone. He realized dimly that he should contact an ambulance. Yes. That was a good idea, calling an ambulance. He withdrew his phone from his jacket pocket and held his fingers above the buttons, poised to make a call. Which number should he dial? 119? No; he wasn’t in Japan. 911? No; he wasn’t in the United States. For a moment his forefinger hovered aimlessly above the number “1,” and then a surge of pressure rose, rose, rose in his chest; and then he bit back a scream and flung his phone against the wall, shaking, sobbing. 

Now I’m alone, he thought, I’m alone, I’m all alone.

For a long time he did not rise from the floor, not until he could see a faint morning light pouring in through the windows. With the light shining in his eyes, he staggered to his feet and made his way to the other side of the kitchen, near a dining room table; and on the table lay a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out and saw that it was a note addressed to him, written in painstakingly neat, stylish penmanship. 

The note said—

_My dearest Yuuri,_

_I am so sorry._   _I love you more than words can express._

_Although I regret hurting you, I’ll never regret meeting you._

_Love,_

_Victor_

Yuuri clenched his teeth and tore the note to shreds and screamed, and screamed, and screamed until his throat went raw.

* * * * *

He attended Victor’s funeral a week later. It was an elaborate, congested affair, with hundreds of people stopping by to pay their respects. Whenever a stranger tried talking to Yuuri—which was often—he answered them coldly and tersely, indicating that he wanted to be left alone. Thankfully, most of them were able to take the hint; some did not, however, and at times he had to bite his tongue to keep himself from shouting at them. 

Victor’s parents were there, too. Yuuri liked them, both of them. They were the ones who set this all up; he had almost nothing to do with the funeral’s arrangement, and until today he had only conversed with them on the phone. When he had spoken to them for the first time, choking back sobs and babbling empty platitudes into the receiver, he’d discovered that neither of them had known about their son’s terminal illness. This, more than anything, made Yuuri loathe Victor for what he had done. How could he have been so heartless? His parents had loved him, raised him, adored him. How could he have done this to them? No, not just them: everyone else, too, because his death had stunned the entire world. Two days after Yuuri had found Victor’s body, a reporter from a national newspaper had exposed the sordid details of Victor’s death to an unknowing public. Yuuri hated seeing photographs of Victor’s pale, haggard face pasted all over magazines, often with some variation of the caption VICTOR NIKIFOROV: ACCIDENT OR SUICIDE? scrawled underneath.

Yuuri shivered and looked around. The ground was covered in a sheet of melting snow and a band of cold sunlight curved around the closed casket, which was adorned with white roses. Victor’s father stood beside the casket, clenching and unclenching his fists, his whole body twitching and trembling. On another part of the grounds, Victor’s mother wandered around in what seemed like a dissociative state, blinking dazedly as she took in her surroundings, her features sporadically contorting with pain. 

Yuuri tore away his gaze and glanced up at the cloudless blue sky, where a flock of birds arced elegantly above his head. No matter what happens, he thought, life still goes on, and on, and on . . .

“Hey, Yuuri,” a voice said. 

Yuuri turned and saw Yurio approaching. He looked older than Yuuri remembered, with smaller eyes and much more prominent cheekbones. Even his nose had morphed into a more mature shape—sharper, pointier; no longer a cute little snub. His body had undergone a transformation, too, becoming tall and muscular and even somewhat imposing. 

“Hi there, Yurio.”

“It’s good to see you again.” Yurio extended a hand; Yuuri shook it gratefully. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri said.

Yurio furrowed his brows. “You really mean that?”

“Yes? No? God, I don’t know.” Yuuri shut his eyes and sighed into his hands. “I'm just kidding myself, aren't I?”

Yurio gave him a sympathetic pat on the back. “I’m sorry. Death sucks, I know.”

“I miss him, Yurio.”

“Yeah, me too. He was a damn good coach.”

Yuuri moved his head to the side, looking at the casket.  Yurio followed Yuuri’s gaze and then said: 

“Scratch that—he was the best damn coach I’ve ever had.” 

Yuuri broke into a fit of laughter. He laughed and laughed and laughed, clutching his chest, until the laughter died on his lips and devolved into broken, ragged sobs.

* * * * *

Yuuri couldn’t help it: he felt depressed. 

He was lying in bed with the covers pulled over his head, shielding his eyes from the harsh white light pouring through his bedroom window. The smell of rotting food filled his nostrils but he was too tired to shuffle downstairs and toss the garbage into a trashcan. Somehow, some way, he gathered what remained of his willpower and abandoned his bed and entered the bathroom. Gazing into the mirror he saw that his face, although haggard and unshaved, looked the same as it always did. How much time had passed since Victor’s funeral? Days? Weeks? Months? Tears rolled down his cheeks. There was no point in doing anything at all, now. Life was depressing and meaningless and his future was hopeless. Unless he took a sleeping pill his thoughts would not let him rest, keeping him up at all hours of the night; and when he did fall asleep he was plagued with horrible nightmares. Sometimes he even took more sleeping pills than he needed just to see what would happen, just to see if it would kill him; but he would always wake up again, still tragically alive. 

Until now he had never understood the appeal of suicide. Somehow it comforted him to know that the option was always there, always. If he wanted to he could end it all, and that would be the end of his pain . . . he could end it all if he wanted to . . .

Did he want to?

Did he want to?

Did he . . . want . . .

Leaving the bathroom, he went over to his desk and sat in a chair and picked up a ballpoint pen and began to write. Once he was done writing he held up the sheet of paper and, although his vision was dimmed with tears, he was still able to read the words scrawled across the page—

_Victor,_

_These past few months have been hard._

_Not long after I found you in your room, I remember being in the airport and seeing a man with pale skin and gray hair, and for a moment or two I’d mistaken that person for you, and my heart had stopped and my chest had ached and I’d wanted to throw up. Honestly I’d be lying if I said I was coping well because I don’t feel like I’m coping well at all. In fact I feel like I’m falling to pieces and I don’t know if anyone can ever save me. This life feels hopeless and dark and I don’t know if I’ll ever see the light again, I just don’t know_

_But despite everything I’m not angry at you, not anymore. I really want to remember you fondly, not as a god but as an imperfect human being, someone who’s loving and kind and stubborn and sometimes cruel._

_Did you ever really know how much I loved you? I keep wondering about this but I still don’t know. I know this note doesn’t make much sense but I hope it reaches you somehow and I hope we’ll meet again someday._

_I hope more than anything that this isn’t the end_

_Love always,_

_Yuuri_

* * * * *

Death is not romantic. It does not lift the spirit, provoke the mind, or mend the soul. It is a cold descent into nothingness, a sudden plunge into a merciless abyss. Death is terrifying; it is destructive; it is to be avoided at all costs . . .

No, no. That was wrong, all wrong. Death fixes what is broken. It abolishes sensation, erases suffering. Heaven does exist and it is filled with lovely, perfect things, like the sweetness of chocolate or the saltsmell of seawater or the smile of a beloved someone. 

Which one was it? Yuuri did not know. His hands were trembling as he thought of his family, his friends, his fans. How much would his death impact them? Would they ever be able to move on? What would they do without him? Clutching his chest, his mind awash in paralyzing uncertainty, he stood stockstill for what felt like an endless stretch of time.

Then he placed the pen back onto his desk and breathed, and breathed, and _breathed_.


End file.
